Eyes
by YYHfan
Summary: They live their entire lives right by the other's side. But they never, ever see each other.' Pain and agony brought them together. They never realized who they really were until they'd destroyed themselves. Bit of Angst, rated for language and theme.
1. Chapter 1

_Do you know the relationship between your two eyes?_

_They blink together,_

_they move together, _

_they cry together,_

_they see things together,_

_they even sleep together._

_They live their entire lives right by the other's side._

_But they never, ever see each other._

The morning was cold and the fog hung so low in the air your feet cut through it as you walked. Thousands of citizens began their blank-faced routines, praying for one more day to hope for the next, for one more meal, even a scant one, to keep them from their not-so-far-off fate.

Red hair, cut short, was so caked in natural grime it looked brown. Bright blue eyes stared out at the world with a lonely, desolate stare. But deep inside the darkest of the pits lay a tiny thought. A hope. The hope of a tiny ring hanging on a chair under his shirt.

"Daxter," called a familiar, slurring accent, "someone threw up in the bathroom again. Get to it!" Rolls of flesh slid and jiggled as the command was shouted over the loud music, a floating chair nearly toppling the meatball right off it's perch as it leaned forward for emphasis.

Blue eyes moved to roll in their sockets before rotating up and to the left.

"Krew, baby, you should stop eating those hot wings. You know they upset yer wittle tummy." The wit went flat without a look to accompany it, half-lidded eyes closing more as the lythe but tall body slowly moved into action, away from the counter. The floating blob glared as it watched, it's chair humming angrily.

Unporportionally long fingers wrapped around the mop handle, the other hand sliding to the bucket, a groan with it's heave. Water splashed onto the floor with each uneasy, strained step the entire way to the men's room.

"Stupid, loudy Krimson Guard... Come in here and have a gay ol' time before pukin' up their entire day's food... for ME to clean up! Stupid, stupid..." Tiny grumbled left thin lips as his rear hit the door, pushing it open. A gasp when a sandal slid on soapy water, and the bucket went flying right over his head. His arms flung back as gravity took hold of him. But the floor did not claim him, as a solid chest met his back instead.

"Sweet mother'a--" He leaped away, arms up at the ready. "Shi-- Sorry, sorry! I was just--"

His voice stopped. It was almost like looking in a mirror. Tired blue eyes stared back at him in annoyance, but not in anger. This man was not drunk. A thick, calloused hand ran through cropped, green-blonde hair as full lips curved into a deep frown. One hand was hidden behind a thick body, and the redhead knew what he was hiding.

"Sorry... Just, uh... came to clean up the mess." His thumb jutted towards the stalls against the wall, and he glanced to see an obvious murky puddle near the end of the line. His eyes darted back to the man before him. "Was you, buddy?" No response came. Not a nod, not a word. Not even a guilty look. "Ah... Well, you go get yerself some water, 'k? It'll make you feel better. I'll uh... Clean all this up..." He looked to the floor, now reflecting in soap-water and filth.

The blonde didn't hesitate, stepping with wide strides around him and out of the restroom. The redhead sighed, lifting his fallen mop from the floor and righting his bucket, beginning his chore.

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The water was warm and dust fell blissfully to the bottom of the glass. But the boy had been right. It had helped.

His still-dry throat tingled slightly in after-taste, dark blue orbs scouting the room of drunkards and women. The beat was too loud, the lights too bright, the shadows too dark. Too much of something for one so used to nothing at all. The desert seemed so peaceful compared to the nightlife of the city. Metal everywhere, nothing organic but the clothes on one's back. You couldn't even consider yourself organic. You were a pawn, not even real. A drone to be used and abused by your master, your protector.

But eyes had seemed so different. Those eyes.

Looking around the room or on the street, it made no matter. Souls dragged behind the feet, eyes on the ground or darting cautiously ahead while a red-metal giant passed by, then glared with diluded hatred once they'd disappeared.

But those eyes. Those blue mirrors... So full of something else. Seemed ready to just explode and let the entire world drown in it.

He'd not been angry. Surprised, annoyed, confused. But those eyes had bled the anger away like anti-poison.

His face had been near repulsive in the gleaming bathroom lights. The dirt and dust and oil and smoke caked to his skin was so vidible it hurt almost as bad as the neon streams. But it reminded him of home, of the dusty, dirty people he'd left behind. That did not bother him so much.

But the two stark white squares forcing themselves between thin lips were like a huge target. And the lank, submissive frame had conflicted so much with the eyes it hurt his head to remember. Fingers rubbed closed eyes, memories pooling behind dark lids. The blue washed over him, like ice cold water. It hypnotized him and awoke him at the same chest ached and burst with each breath through rememberance.

But the sound of solid, metalic footsteps broke his hypnosis, his own heated eyes turning wide to the door.

"This building has been ordered shut down by his grand protector of the city, Baron Praxis. All inside are under arrest for harboring fugatives and underground rebels. Surrender now!"

His ear caught another sound, his eyes flickering to the bathroom door. He was just quick enough to catch a streak of red flee through bar, to the counter and out a side door, a blonde woman, the bartender, being dragged behind rushedly.

His common sense returned a split second before a gun butt collided with his temple, a strong, thick arm rising to block the hit. A moment of shock and his body leapt into action. Another arm rising to pumel a shielded face into submission, metal-capped boots balancing while one rose to deeply dent hard armor. But his valor was not enough, and a shimering streak of blue light clasped onto him, his body flailing mercilessly in agony, each nerve on fire and frantic for release. What fel like an eternity in pain finally diminished, and his body fell to it's knees. He was out cold before he ever hit the floor.

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Sweaty hand held for dear life as he pulled her through the dank, under-used kitchen to a set of double back doors. Confused, wide eyes darted between him and behind them, a loud comotion soon catching up. He suddenly stopped, gripping the woman's shoulder's tightly.

"Listen to me, Tess. As soon as we get outside you head towards the stadium and hide out there, ok? I'll head to the slums--"

"Daxter, no-- We have to--"

His answer was a final motion, throwing her out of the back door. He emerged behind her to find half a dozen raised barrels towards them.

His mind shut off time. Thoughts spun faster than the blink of an eye, calculating the entire alleyway, the guards, and the woman pushing back against him. His mind sobbed in agony as his arms pushed her aside before reaching for a long wooden plank from a broken palette. He swung, the first raising covered arm to deflect the blow. But another thrust into his gut quieted him, his knees folding so his body met the ground. He shouted to the woman, not watching as she hesitated before darting away fearfully. Instead he could only watch as a gun raised, swinging at him and catching him across the face, a deep gash tearing open from cheekbone to chin. His body collapsed limply to the broken pavement.


	2. Chapter 2

The fog very slowly lifted from his mind, the thick blanket of lead uncovering his body piece-by-piece. It was a long time before his eyes opened to the blinding light above him, glaring down upon him with a fierce gleam. The room seemed ten-times louder with light thanks to the metal sheets covering every inch, polished into pin-point precision. Looking in, one would think there were seven of him, two defying the laws of logic and gravity.

Shaky hands pushed the frail body from the icy floor, realizing how badly he shivered. Pushing red strands away, groggy blue pools gazed about the room in half-interest. He held himself, body trembling violently with chills, and swore he could see his breath.

He was still too downed to feel that fact was quickly banished as loud metal footsteps clunked past the door at the front of the cell. They did not stop, soon disappearing somewhere far off, but the trembling had tripled, nearly toppling him over as he tried to stand atop uncertain legs. He flung himself to the door, looking as best he could out of the metal bars of the tiny window.

No.

No, no, no.

From his window, he could see a portal to the right. Left from there was a huge hole in the floor, in the center of which stood a platform. On said island rested a vicious looking machine. Long arms extended downward at sharp angles, menacingly long needle points reaching almost to the hard metal bed they hung over. While the bed itself was clean, spotless, the floor around it held deep, set-in stains. Blackened with time, as he hoped, smears of deep maroon and pure jet were ground into the cracks and scratches. Huge vat loomed over the top of it all, surely filled with pure acid. A control panel stood not far away, and a long bridge connected the island to the mainland.

He shook his head, stepping back from the door. No, no. No!

A pleading whimper escaped his lips as he hugged himself in terror, searching the room in earnest for any escape route. But not even a mouse-hole could dig itself through thick only three openings to the outside world were the window in the door, the toilet, and a tiny vent the size of his hand when he spread his fingers. The only other things in the room being himself and a long mattress laying on a metal table.

He closed his eyes, horrified fingers gripping his sharp red hair in agony as he shook his head hard, his mind's shouting ringing in his ears.

Why didn't they just kill me? Why couldn't they just kill me? I'll die here-- Horrible, terrible--

No real words formed, only pictures and memories. Had his entire life come to this? He had been ready to die to the underground rebellion, to overthrow the monster sitting on the throne. He'd been ready to _die_.

But not to live like this.

He'd heard stories of what happened to people brought into the prison. He'd personally seen the outcome once. Melting flesh and boiling blood, shrieks of agonizing pain and anguish, eyeballs exploding with oozing--

The lock clicked.

Wide eyes jerked forward, blurring slightly as he blinked away the frantic tears.

The lock spun, and a loud hiss was heard as the door gave way and opened. It was nearly ten-inches thick.

A top of light red hair strode in, calculating, cold eyes looking him over. Though their colors were similar, the two could not have been more different.

He, himself, was taller and thin. Unporportional body, his hair spiked straight and cut short. Dirt covered him still, though his clothes had been exchanged for striped prison rags, the missing of a single object around his neck leaving him feeling more naked than he could ever feel without clothes.

The one standing across from him stood with a straight back, thick arms folded over an equally thick chest. He was shorter, but made up for it easily with his bulk. But it was lean, somehow. Like the muscles had been worked for certain movements rather than sheer mass.

"What's your real name?" came a rather high, velvety voice.

Daxter quickly clamped his mouth tightly shut around slightly-protruding eyeteeth. He stared at the man with blank worry he could not hide.

"I said what is your real name?" His voice rose slightly as he held up an ID. "The underground never uses real names. Cooperate and I may be lenient." He waited. But when he was once again met with silence, he straightened, his nose rising into the air. "I see... I've broken heroes before. And you, boy, are no hero. You will die before the week is through."

He spun on his heel, striding from the cell, his guards following him. Daxter watched without changing expression as the door hissed loudly shut. But once the footsteps had faded, his eyes fluttered shut, his knees finally giving out and dropping him to the floor. He hugged himself tightly, a tiny sob catching barely in his throat.

Just remember, he told himself. Death is good. Death is freedom from this Hell. He nodded. Pray for it. Wish for it.

But don't ever beg for it.

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The freezing air clung to him like ice water, touching his very bones. He ran a hand limply up a thick bicep, goosebumps raising with tingles as the warmth left the skin. Lazy orbs gazed about the room he sat in, resting on the edge of the make-shift bed. A tiny vent broke the monotony, but did little to improve the mood of the room.

A sharp hiss met his ears, and he turned his head to see a group of three walk into his cell.

His cell.

He'd only just woken, and he was already claiming the space.

A redhead stood at the front of the pack, obviously leader over them for a reason. Paling red hair curled in jagged spikes over his head, icy eyes staring down at him in amusement. Red seemed to be popular this season.

"What is your name?" His voice was sharp and controlled, though no amount of control could keep the sense of impending doom from dripping out of his mouth. When no response met him, he frowned. "Why is no one talking to me today?" He looked at one of the guards, who shrugged. The redhead shook his head, sighing. "If you cooperate, I'll be lenient." He waited. "Tell me your name, or face the consequences." Nothing. "Fine. Have it your way."

The three of them turned sharply, striding out of the room noisily. The blonde only watched with half-lidded eyes. He would have made an escape, save for the fact of six more guards standing with rifles at the ready right outside the door, and for the fact he, for once, wasn't sure if he could defeat the redhead.

Lean muscles didn't compare to his own thick bulk, but the man had been weaselly and quick with his movements. He was probably fast, something he would not be able to defeat unless he got in a good hit. Which was unlikely without surprise or a weapon fighting alongside him.

He looked back to the vent. Rising, he let his hands fall to his sides and, upon arriving to the wall, set one in front of the vent. Warm air seeped through lazily. He paused before dropping to the floor in front of the vent, leaning back and resting his spine against the warm air. He hugged his front, knees up near his chest, closing his eyes. His mind began whirring, calculating a great escape.

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Fixed the problem with the POV changes. I'd had something there, but it didn't come through when I transferred the doc. :)

This chapter is a little lighter (I think, anyway) than the last. But I'm going to be trying to make the next dark and evilly (but I don't write those well! Here goes nothing, lol!) Hope you like, please review~!

CrazyFanGirl: Thank you so much for the review~ So fast! Oo I went ahead and fixed the problem, thank you for pointing it out~! :)


	3. Chapter 3

=======================================================================ch3

During the night the redhead had found his own way to the air vent, breathing in deeply the foul yet warm air. He'd slept against the vent, the small bit of relief making the room seem much more homey. When he was shaken awake by the sound of the angry door, he was huddled against the vent, his knees pulled up to his chest.

"Get up," came the stern, rock hard order, the voice singed in metallic annoyance. Daxter's frown was almost comical in it's size as he was pulled to his feet painfully.

He struggled to stay on his feet in his sleepy stupor, a vaguely familiar face standing before him with an amused, if not entertained, look. His other redhead stood before him, raising an eyebrow when he had done the same.

"My name is Erol. Memorizing it would do you well." Strong legs made long, slow strides around him in a circle, studying him as he was held by the guards, one on each arm. Just as he'd come to face Daxter again, the prisoner spoke. His voice was tired and gruff, hoarse from lack of liquid.

"C'n I jus' go back t' bed, please...?" The plea had been more sarcastic, though once again, his face failed to reveal the fact.

Erol's face broke into a wide smirk, showing off gleaming teeth. "Didn't take long for you to speak, let alone beg. This may turn out well after all."

"Oh just shuve it, carrot top." The response slipped through his lips before his mind registered the thought ever being there, but he regretted it all too well when knuckled swiftly contacted his spleen, doubling him in agony.

"Erol," he reminded. "You will memorize it before we're through."

Daxter could feel the satisfied smirk on his punisher's lips, beaming down at him from his pedistol. He swallowed down choice words, deciding instead to speak in a softer, less painful tone.

"... Y-you make... l-lots'a prom... mises, dun't'cha...?"

"More like threats."

".... 'M guessin'... They ain't empty...?"

The sneer bled into his voice. "Not in the least."

Daxter nodded slightly, hanging his head a bit. He was too tired to fight it. Too small. Too weak. But he would not speak more, nothing more than insults. That was all the bastards deserved for what they'd done.

The room echoed with the sound of metal boots hitting the floor at a slow, liesurly pace. The redhead's eyes followed the yellow clad legs as they made their rounds about him.

"What is your name?" came the all-too serious voice. When he kept his lips clamped tightly together, head having risen slightly, the question was repeated. But the silence seemed defening when the boots stopped and not a word spoken. Suddenly fingers laced his hair, gripping tightly and yanking so yard his body curved, straining as it was held by the guards at his arms. His eyes were shut tightly as he could feel the hairs being pulled from their roots.

"When I ask you a question I expect an answer, Rebel," Erol hissed. His eyes pierced into Daxter's face, trying to see right into his mind for the answers he sought. But the redhead kept his teeth tight on his lip, no sound more than a whimper escaping him. After his head had finally gone numb from pain his hair was released, though this pain was only replaced by another as armored fists came into contact with his soft flesh.

They finally left him when he was sure there wasn't a place on him unbruised. The door slammed shut angrily, leaving him curled against himself in the middle of the floor. His eyes were shut tightly, imagining he was home on his cold wooden floor. It was close, but still not the same. But if he tried very, very hard...

He could pretend he was ok.

* * *

The guards move right past his door. He had expected they'd stop, but they hadn't. Erol didn't seem in the mood for him today.

The blonde, sitting next to the vent, had heard everything very clearly, almost as if he'd been in the same room. He had listened close and had to commend this prisoner for his silence, though his comebacks were less than appealing.

He moved to lay on his side, hand keeping his head up as he studied the vent. Tiny sounds could be heard, but he ignored them as he fiddled with the screws. The vent was small, hardly bigger than his hand, but if it lead outside it was a possible means of escape, even if he couldn't fit through it. If it were dusty or echoed or something else he hadn't thought of yet. But there was always a way out of everything. He had learned that.

His mind slipped back to him as he heard the vent across from his move slightly, the air muffle. It seems his cell mate had come back to the warmth for consolance. He would have frowned deeper for him had his mind not already been driven back to his escape plans.

* * *

It wasn't every day, he was sure, but it must have been close to it that Erol returned. Might have been on a schedule, but he was never fed at specific times, if at all, so he couldn't tell. Though he had already come to the conclusion if he were an evil bastard he'd want his prisoners to never know the time or have anything to go off of, thus he was sure the other redhead would want the same.

Daxter touched the hard scab on his cheek. The scar was forming, dead skin peeling off to reveal soft skin underneith. He couldn't have been here that long, could he? And to never visit that homicidal machine outside his door? To never come so close to death he could taste the icy rust from it's breath? No. He couldn't have been here so long.

But he had been here long enough to learn a few things. One, engaging in idle chat with Erol was useless and proved to be more painful than just remaining silent. Two, at least two people died a day right outside his cell, the familiar stench of the darkness leaving a very specific scent in the air. Three, the heat from the vent did shut off on a normal basis, and from counting blankly he could guesstimate it was probably every hour, for an hour, though sometimes a bit less.

He had also learned he could hear every time goings-on in the cell next to his. The vent seemed to lead right to it, though it appeared to be at a slight bend because he could see no light through the cracks. As he would sit and listen to Erol speak he would try to picture the person in that cell. They made Erol so angry, and yet the man spoke so softly when he entered the cell. Such a strange tone for such an arrogant man. This person... This person who shared Daxter's fate. Erol must like them for some reason. So he tried to calculate what Erol would like in a person. From what few words the stranger spoke it was obvious he was male, voice deep and gruff, though an underlying silky sound meant he had to be young. Perhaps even Daxter's age. But why would two men so similar be right next to each other? Could it possibly be coincidence?

"Where I come from, men like you die quickly."

Daxter smirked as he imagined the look of rage on Erol's face at the reply.

"Boy, you test my patience! One more insult and the next time we meet you will scream!"

"You don't scare me. If it weren't for all your little rats you'd be nothing more than just another arrogant shut-in pretending to be hot stuff."

Erol's cry of rage came a moment later, and Daxter covered his mouth to hide his glee. "You'll rue the day you crossed my path, boy!" A moment later the cell door whirred to a slam, and silence fell as Erol's quick steps faded away.

Daxter sat up, hands wringing. Now was his chance. He'd been waiting for a time when Erol wouldn't bother them for a long while, and he was sure to not return for a long, long time. He looked down at the vent.

One thing kept him sane his entire life. The fact that someone else was there going through exactly what he was going through. The fact there _was_ someone he could talk to, even if they didn't speak. Even if they never met, the idea of what they would do in his shoes and vice versa made him keep going, made him want to help that other person more than anyone he would see on the street. Because that person was like him, that person felt what he felt, shared what he thought and what he did. That person was like a brother or sister, like a close friend you'd never met. You might never meet. That person was who he saw when he looked in the mirror. And when he held himself, he held them too. And he was never alone.

In here he'd been alone for the first time since his mother had died. But it hadn't lasted when he heard the squabbles through the vent. He had realised there was another in here, in this prison, who was also dealing with Erol, dealing with the fear and the cold and the hunger and the hatred. Someone just like him, regardless how different they might have been. And this time he knew this person was close enough to touch.

He leaned close to the vent, listening for a moment.

"Psst."

There came no reply. He sat up, wringing his hands tighter. Maybe they didn't want to talk. Maybe they were angry. He didn't Want to be yelled at, not right now. He needed comfort, as small and shallow as it might have been. He didn't want to be alone.

It took him a long while to build the courage to try again. Leaning close to the air vent once more, he whispered.

* * *

The first sound had been drowned in the sound of the warm air, and the blonde had dismissed it without a glance as just another noise. He had closed his eyes, leaning against the wall and relishing the tiny warmth as his mind whirred around his plans, scrapping and redrawing in his brain. But his ear twitched at the true sorce of the sound, eyes opening.

"... C-can you hear me?"

He stared at the wall across from him with blank, alert eyes. The last thing he wanted. A beggar.

He ignored the sound for a bit, but his mind wouldn't let the voice go. So small, so distant and yet so close. It reached out to him like the hand of a child, and it reminded him so much of cold water and blissful rain that he could not escape it.

He did not want it. He had to think of himself, how to free himself and to finish his own plans. Speaking to another, even shortly, would close a silent deal to help them as well. He couldn't free anyone else. He just couldn't. It was too much of a risk and his plans were too big for that.

But the rain forced those thoughts away, washed clean all his plans and his eye lids lowered slightly.

"Yes."

Sorry for the long wait~ D"8 Finals are coming up, bah! But I'll try to update more. I only get really good inspriation at certain times, but I like the story and I figure "Baaah... Why not just write it?" Lol. Not as good as previous chapters, but I hope it's alright~


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